


jusqu'au bout de la nuit

by milleseptcent



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, I miss my OL kings and had to write this, M/M, New Year's Kiss, Olympique Lyonnais, actually atm I just miss umtiti playing at all sigh, listen I love laca and auba but this is where it's at, seriously it's only fluff, this is what you need to keep warm on these cold winter nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:23:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17205020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milleseptcent/pseuds/milleseptcent
Summary: The thing is, Samuel has been Alex’s New Year’s kiss ever since he was 18, and Alex isn’t sure how he’s going to manage his first year on his own in almost a decade.or: Alex deals with the fact that Samuel can't fly to London for New Year's Eve, and reflects on their years together and apart.





	jusqu'au bout de la nuit

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a reference to [Images - Les démons de minuit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_ZxDNZjzVk), which is a Not Very Good french party song, often played at NYE parties, and also the song that umtiti's chant during the wc was based on
> 
> all my thanks to Mavis and Sterenn who both read the very first version of this and told me it was good! while obviously a lie, it motivated me to keep editing until my eyes were liquifying, so thank you. thank you also for listening to me rant about OL when you clearly don't care! love you both

Lacazette is in a mood, Auba concludes about five minutes into training. He’s been acting all huffy and sulky, sighing at his water bottle, at the coach’s instructions, at a confused Torreira who’d had the misfortune of being paired up with him, and even at Pierre’s great jokes.

 

It’s not like Laca being in a mood anything new, Auba knows by now, but his bouts of temper usually pass soon enough. Usually, Laca finds some poor soul to yell at for a bit, then throws his hands into the air helplessly, then grumbles some more, and only then he goes back to his more or less pleasant self – that is, until he decides he’s got a bone to pick with a teammate or a staff member or the world at large again.

 

Well, not this time. Laca has been quietly moping all morning, brow downcast and eyes distracted. In the locker room, he frowns at his shoes until Matteo tells him to hurry. Emery’s watchful stare follows him the entire time on the pitch, the concerned crease between his eyebrows announcing a good scolding to come if Alex doesn’t get it together rather sooner than later.

 

Auba resolves to take one for the team after training, going up to Lacazette to listen to the rant he's probably been preparing all day. But it never comes; instead, Laca's eyes float vaguely up to him, like he’s surprised to even find Auba there – which is a little bit insulting, because Auba might be loud and boisterous, but he pays attention and he is a good friend.

 

Alex mutters “I'm fine,” and Auba rolls his eyes. Okay, then, he tells himself. If Laca wants to brood in his sad little corner, Auba is certainly not going to stop him. Laca still looks scrunched up as Özil and Iwobi debate Christmas plans, though he must be listening in at least a little, because he shakes his head when Sead says they should go for team brunch on the 25th.

 

“I can’t,” Alex says. “I’m flying to Lyon.”

 

“Oh, good,” Sead smiles. “Seeing family and friends?” Alex nods, and he’s not smiling, but his frown looks a bit less like _I’ve just watched every kitten in the world die a painful death and also Tottenham won the League_ and more like _I am going through some unfortunate circumstances but will eventually get over it_ , which is good.

 

“Is Umtiti flying in from Barcelona as well?” Matteo pipes up, and Auba braces himself for the answer –  if there’s one topic that gets Alex going, it has to be his best friend and former teammate. He apparently never tires of speaking about him, his eyes going bright and dreamy as he embarks on endless rants, which would be cute if it wasn’t so annoying. But once again, Laca doesn’t react, barely shrugs as he answers:

 

“No. He’s still in Qatar.”

 

And with that, he zips his bags, gets up and takes his leave, his frown back on, and at maximal magnitude, too. Even Kolscieny shoots Auba a half surprised, half worried look above Sead’s head as the door closes behind Alex.

 

“What’s up with him?” He asks in French.

 

“No idea. Do you think he fought with Umtiti?”

 

Matteo looks scandalised, eyes going wide like a child who’s just been told his parents are getting a divorce. “You really think they could?”

 

“No, Samuel isn’t like that,” Laurent says. “He doesn’t get into fights, especially not with Alex.” There’s a slight silence which they all use to reflect on the possible reasons for Alex’s weird mood, before Laurent shrugs. “Don’t worry, Alex will come around soon enough and tell us what that was all about. He’s probably only tired and missing home, with Christmas coming and all. Maybe it doesn’t even have anything to do with Samuel…”

 

“Yeah,” Matteo says, dejected. “Hope he will.”

  


···

  


The thing is, Alex’s mood _does_ have to do with Samuel. Actually, it’s all because of Samuel. Well, not exactly – it’s not Sam’s _fault_ or anything, not at all, in fact, and that is the whole problem, isn’t it? This is all Alex, blowing stuff out of proportion when it’s really nothing.

 

Usually, Sam is the one he calls when he gets like that. Sam’s voice is warm on the phone and Alex closes his eyes, the darkness comforting like when they used to room together on away games. The distance between Barcelona and London shrinks until it’s no wider than the space between twin hotel beds, Sam’s smooth intonations and quiet giggles undoing the tangles of worry in Alex’s chest.

 

But yesterday, that voice had been the one to coil anxiety around Alex’s heart. _I’m going back to training on the 30th,_ Sam had said, sounding tired but relieved, and Alex had bit back his protests, of how Sam had already booked his plane to London on the 31st, hadn’t he…

 

Alex had forced prickly disappointment down his throat. He’d swallowed around the hurt, tried to smile around it, to coat it in cheerfulness. _It’s great you’re going back to training, Sam. I’m glad you’re recovering well._

 

And it is great, it really is, Alex knows how alone and miserable Sam has been feeling in Qatar, knows how worried he is about his knee, Alex is, too, but –

 

The thing is, Samuel has been Alex’s New Year’s kiss ever since he was 18, and Alex isn’t sure how he’s going to manage his first year on his own in almost a decade.

 

Well, not on his own, exactly. Auba has invited him to go along to a restaurant with some others from the team, and it sure is going to be fun. But Sam is – something else. Alex sighs and fiddles with the red bracelet tied around his wrist, then texts Auba asking about the New Year party.

  


···

  


The very first time is an accident.

 

Alex's memories of it are hazy – it’s yet another academy party, with teammates and friends and friends-of-friends. But the image of Sam is sharp in the blur of music and alcohol; the bright glint of his diamond earrings as the darkness around them had erupted into cheers, his confused laughter when everyone around them – the teammates and the friends and the friends-of-friends – had suddenly paired up for New Year’s kisses. Alex’s eyes had lingered on Sam’s lips for one second too long, and suddenly Sam was warm as he stumbled into him, and they weren’t kissing, not exactly, more like laughing into each other’s mouth.

 

But as Alex had moved to pull away, Sam’s hands were firm on his jaw and suddenly it was a proper kiss, and Alex doesn’t know if it’s the rum or Sam’s mouth that had made the world spin and shift around its axis. He still remembers Sam’s fingers on his hair, pulling softly at his braids, and nine years later, the memory still makes his heart feels like it’s stumbling over itself a little bit.

 

And then Sam had leaned away, complaining about Alex spilling beer on him. Alex had laughed, giddy hysteria buzzing through him as he looked at Sam in disbelief, lips tingling and not knowing what to do with the desire to kiss away Sam’s smirk.

 

So, that first time had been an accident – and every time they had ended up making out at parties during the year that follows is, too.

 

Sometimes they’re dared to, sometimes they’re just too drunk, and sometimes it’s – something else. Sometimes it’s just Sam smiling at Alex like he has a secret he only wants to tell him, looking happy and confident and so _right_ at Alex’s side that it makes him forget how young Sam really is, playing for a team two years above his age, and as captain, too – looking like Alex maybe doesn’t need a dare or a drink to want to kiss Sam.

 

Of course, that thought is terrifying, and so Alex doesn’t linger on it. It’s not like he has any time to do so, anyways, as they struggle in the move from the academy to the A team.

 

At the next New Year’s Eve party, leaning in close to Sam feels easy, practiced, in a way accidents probably shouldn’t. Their teammates are whooping and yelling around them and Alex bites at Sam’s bottom lip the way he knows makes Sam’s grip tighten on his hips. They laugh it off afterwards, but Sam doesn’t let go of Alex’s waist, sending tingles up his spine, electric in the heavy cloud of tipsiness.

 

And so that’s how it starts. Eventually, they stop getting too close to each other at parties; they’re too old for teenage experiments, too young not to care about their teammates’ stares and jabs. But every year, somewhere between the 31st and the next year, somewhere between the fancy drinks and the glitter confetti, there is a convenient excuse to fall back into each other. They're single, or their girlfriends aren't there, or they’re celebrating a good start of the season, or they need the luck for the next game or –

 

They kiss on someone’s tiny balcony, holding hands to keep warm, misty puffs of breaths mingling and Lyon muffled under the snow below them; they kiss in darkened bedrooms at house parties, stumbling over each other, giddy drunk; they kiss in fancy club bathrooms, muted music pulsing through the walls and tasting like vodka; they kiss and spend 365 days not talking about it and then they kiss again.

 

Under Alex’s lips, Sam fades from the determined captain of teams older than him, to the young pro player hungry for proving himself. He grows into the Lyon legend shining in Stade des Lumières, and then into the key of Barça’s defence. Alex’s hands tangle in increasingly shorter hair over the years (thank God for that, he muses now when he stumbles upon old pictures); then Sam takes out the diamond studs shining in his ears, then he grows a beard.

 

But every time the clock strikes midnight, Alex never wants to kiss him any less as Sam smiles at him, his hands warm on Alex’s waist and his chest solid under Alex’s hands, laughter fizzling like champagne against Alex’s lips.

  


···

  


The years pass until one year, it’s five minutes to midnight and Alex asks the girl who’s been flirting with him the whole evening to go get them drinks. He doesn’t even feel guilty as he disappears in the crowd as soon as she turns her back.

 

She has pretty eyes and a nice laugh, but all that’s been on Alex’s mind lately is how Sam’s dream club is looking to buy him, and there’s no room for pretty eyes in the bittersweet dilemma between feeling happy for Sam and the egoistical wish to hold him back.

 

He finds Sam in a room that’s dark and pulsing with music. He’s in a corner, dancing with Corentin and Jordan, and turns his head in surprise when Alex’s hands find his hips. He misses a step – not that it actually matters, because he can’t dance anyways – and he's drunk already, yelling out something ununderstandable as he leans back into Alex's chest in recognition. They sway together and Alex smiles in Sam’s shoulder –  damn him for being so tall, and then stick his tongue out at Coco who is rolling his eyes at them. Then he remembers why he is there and hands his drink to Jordan before he pulls Sam away.

 

Sam protests a little bit, but he laughs as he follows Alex’s lead up the stairs and into an empty corridor. Sam’s laugh dies softly in the space between them as Alex turns to face him, the ghost of a smile floating on his lips and he pulls at Alex’s hand, tugging him closer.

 

The rhythm of their breathing somehow sounds louder than the countdown starting downstairs, Sam’s breath warm on Alex’s lips. At three, Alex licks his lips; at two he looks down at Sam’s lips; he closes his eyes at one; and at zero, Sam’s lips are tender on his, more than Alex expected for how drunk Sam is.

 

There is a sigh of comfort between them as muted cheering reaches them, and as Alex loses himself in the familiar feel of his best friend’s mouth and hands and smell, following the comforting lines of his face with the tips of his fingers, he tells himself it might very well be the last time. He doesn’t dare to open his eyes for fear of Sam leaving as soon as the moment breaks.

 

Alex’s hands fist in Sam’s shirt, until he feels warm skin under his fingers, and he must be a little rough, blunt nails digging in firm muscles because Sam’s breath hitches the slightest bit in his mouth. For one wild moment Alex thinks, what if – what if he doesn’t let Sam go at all, what if he keeps him there, pinned against the wall in that dark corridor, forever? What would the self-important Barcelona people say, then, what would they do, stiff in their fancy suits in the middle of the party?

 

Alex can’t help but snort at the thought, and Sam joins him in laughter, hugging him close, Alex’s giggles spilling into his neck, and Alex wonders if this feels as much as a goodbye for Sam as it does for him, or if he’s too drunk (on rum, on the promise of glory to come) to notice.

 

Forever doesn’t come to pass in the dark corridor, and eventually they get back downstairs, and Alex has a dance-off with Corentin; and the pretty girl yells at him, nice smile contorted into a scowl as she asks where he’d disappeared to; and Sam leaves Lyon in the end; and Coco and Jo and Nabil and the others all treat Alex like he’s some fragile creature for a couple weeks afterwards until they settle around the cold space where Sam used to be.

  


···

  


Maybe it wasn’t goodbye for Samuel, after all, or maybe it was merely his first goodbye in a long series, because he comes back, not quite often but almost, on weekends and birthdays and weddings – and for the New Year.

 

Sam’s hand comes to rest on Alex’s knee halfway through dinner on the 31st, when everyone is getting just drunk enough not to notice, and Alex can’t stop smiling. He feels warm all over – warm, the weight of Sam’s hand curled around his thigh; warm, the good food in his belly; warm, the wine buzzing in his head; warm, the restaurant alight with the voices of old friends. Right there and then, it feels easy to pretend that the red and blue in Sam’s stories is the same as in the crest on Alex’s heart.

 

The clock strikes the new year in a chorus of glasses clinking and well-wishes, laughter and champagne sparkling, and in the midst of it all Sam leans right into Alex’s space. Alex puts a confused hand on his shoulder, unsure whether he’s trying to push him away or to bring him closer, feeling their friends’ eyes darting towards them –

 

Sam kisses him short and sweet in front of everyone, barely nibbling at Alex’s lips. When they sit back down, he takes Alex’s clammy hand in his, linking their fingers and Alex tries to look away, heart hammering in his chest.

 

No one mentions it, but Alex catches lingering glances on him, eyes weighting, considering, trying to find the words to form questions but not asking them – _out of cowardice or confusion?_ Alex wonders.

 

For him, it's because of both that he never asks Sam the questions that fkilcer through his head.

  


···

  


And then the summer of 2017 happens, Alex and Corentin pulling at the golden threads that had embroidered the story of Lyon’s best generation until they unravel, stretched between Barcelona, London and Munich.

 

Alex settles in a new city – bigger and colder, where blue is not half his heart anymore but the _enemy_ –  and into a schedule that definitely does not allow for stolen kisses in Lyon.

 

“What do you mean, you’re playing on the first?” Samuel asks, his eyebrows going up in outrage on the screen. Alex shrugs.

 

“Yeah. And it’s Chelsea, too.” Sam whistles in admiration, eyes twinkling with pride, and Alex feels himself grinning.

 

“Well, I guess I’m flying to London, then,” Sam sighs after a silence. “Mom won’t be happy about that.” He sends Alex a pointed glare, like it’s somehow his fault.

 

Alex frowns, but he’s not sure how to argue without acknowledging the fact that this whole thing has definitely moved past mere coincidences and into a tradition of sorts. Cowardice and confusion sew his mouth closed and tie knots in his chest and so he keeps silent.

 

Sam’s mom does complain, but her son still flies to London, and Alex begins 2018 by pressing him against a wall and kissing him tender until he isn’t, until they’re both panting as the party goes on loud around them, wet lips barely brushing against each other and sending tingles down their spines. Alex excuses himself one hour later, and Sam leaves with him.

 

Alex ends up going to sleep way later than Emery ever needs to know. After all, the coach’s instructions definitely did not account for Sam climbing in bed with Alex, tasting like toothpaste and smelling like Alex’s body wash. He feels like _home_ , warm under Alex’s hands. Alex’s eyelids are heavy, dizzy with alcohol and dazed with pleasure. He drops back on the pillow, head spinning as Sam’s tongue traces blazing paths on his neck and chest and belly and –

 

It’s not exactly the best blowjob Alex’s ever gotten, Sam’s mouth a bit too clumsy and eager but it’s _Sam_ and Alex comes embarrassingly quickly. Sam doesn’t seem to mind, biting at Alex’s clavicle and muffling moans in his skin, and Alex holds him in wonder as he goes taut against Alex’s pliant body.

 

And okay, maybe Laca spends the better part of the year fantasizing about returning the favour; about the taste of his world champion’s smile, about what it would feel like to kiss along the lines of muscle and tattoos that he knows by heart but that he still craves to touch.

 

But it’s not like it’s going to happen now, not this year, not with Sam going back to training on the 30th and Alex playing Fulham on the 1st.

 

  
···

  


Alex ends up, predictably, having fun on New Year’s Eve, after all. He still sulks a bit the whole week that leads to it, but he’s good enough at covering his moping for his teammates to stop nagging at him. The party is good, great, even. Alex does love his teammates, and their laughter and stupid banter makes Sam’s absence feel a bit less heavy.

 

Until the countdown starts, and Alex feel like his voice is echoing into nothingness without the warm chorus of Sam’s, and he turns helplessly to Auba, who smiles at him, bright and oblivious, and then it’s 2019, and Alex feels cold despite the group hug he throws himself into.

 

He reads Sam’s New Year text in bed, fingertips grazing his own lips absentmindedly as he skims over the heart emojis and Sam calling him _Mon prince_. He tells himself it’s the champagne that makes him feel warm all over even as he feels his heart sink.

  


···

  


Premier League players eventually get holidays, too, on the 19th of January, five days off for the Arsenal men's team. Alex books his flight for Barcelona straight away – his mother will understand, he tells himself, she loves Sam like her own son and will probably be delighted when Alex and Sam FaceTime her together. The thought makes his stomach flip a little bit, not quite uncomfortably.

 

It’s 19 days too late when Alex steps out of the plane and Sam’s smile welcomes him, warm as the Spanish weather. He can feel himself smiling back, yelling “Sam!” and dropping his bag to the ground as Sam engulfs him in a hug. He presses his face into his neck and says nothing for a while, nodding when Sam asks if he’s had a good trip and feeling him laugh quietly in his arms, the feeling of _home_ settling into his bones as he breathes in Sam’s familiar cologne.

 

“I missed you for the New Year,” he finally mumbles against Sam’s neck, which is the next best thing to _take me anywhere that isn’t a crowded airport hall and kiss me already_ , but Sam seems to catch the meaning because a shiver runs through him. Alex grins.

 

“Did you?”

 

“Yeah,” Alex says, and it sounds a bit more breathless than he’d meant, but it doesn’t matter because Sam is leading him away, through the bland maze of airport corridors and to his car, in the far corner of an underground parking lot.

 

Alex barely hears the muffled thud of his bag as Sam drops it to the ground, because Sam is smiling to him, and it’s the smile that has made Alex’s heart trip and quicken ever since he was 18, happy and confident and _right_ and like Sam has a secret meant only for Alex; and maybe they’ve had such a secret all along, after all.

 

Their lips touch, and for one moment it’s just that, a smile against a smile, breathing each other in, until Sam cups Alex’s face. It’s familiar – it’s the makeout sessions with too much tongue and excuses, the rush of anticipation as the countdown starts, the quiet lull of daydreams, the celebrations in Gerland, the guilty excitement of covert glances in the locker room. It’s all of that, and nothing like it, because it’s just the two of them in the dim parking lot, Sam’s car cold against Alex’s back.

 

The parking lot is silent around them, Alex’s heartbeat in his ears instead of the thrumming party music, the rush of blood roaring with happiness louder than drunken cheers ever could. This time they’re sober, but Alex feels tingles at his fingertips and warmth in his chest and it is more intoxicating than anything they’ve ever done in the daze of alcohol.

 

They break apart, and Alex immediately wants to do it again. He’s waited years for this, literally. This, and more – he can feel Sam’s firm abs under his fingers as he tugs at Sam’s belt loops and heat pools in his belly.

 

Alex kisses Sam’s lips once more, short and trying to keep himself from lingering but failing once and twice before he pushes him away.

 

“Come on, come on. Drive me home.”

 

And Sam laughs and kisses Alex again, and then he gets into the car and as Alex watches the yellow light of streetlamps glide across Sam’s face, he knows that Sam could drive him anywhere, and he would still be driving Alex home.

**Author's Note:**

> how do you like the cheesiest ending of All Times?? I'm probably going to change it later but right now I'm young and in love and it's Christmas so I'm sorry you have to deal with my fluffy feelings
> 
> by the way most of the facts here are real (from umtiti flying to london for nye last year to him calling lacaz "mon prince"), except for one: last year arsenal played chelsea on the 3rd and not the 1st. by the time I noticed I had gotten it wrong I was too lazy to change it though
> 
> please come talk to me about lacaz and umtiti (and OL in general) on tumblr [@sombrebail](sombrebail.tumblr.com)


End file.
